


Half a Heart

by Venstar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/pseuds/Venstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, John struggles to maintain normalcy, but that all ends when Moriarty's top assassin decides he's tired of waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> again, this was done in collaboration for the Sherlock mini-bang and i'm just getting around to posting them here. please see the most handsome, narcissus for the art he contributed. he was extremely lovely to work with and it was a true collaboration because he told me what he wanted....and i gave it to him gladly!! love u babe! http://narcissus-garden.tumblr.com/post/71627152827/sherlock-mini-bang-entry-by-arkashaix-from-time

Sherlock handed out a pair of mugs filled with tea to Molly and Stamford. They were mismatched, found in the lab sink, one with a blue phonebox on the side and the other with #1 DAD. The rich, earthy aroma of the black tea filled their nostrils. Molly's hands shook as she reached for hers. She had wanted to stay, even though she wasn’t a main target. However, Molly was so transparent, a horrible liar, really. She had grasped him in a quick hug when he explained that she had to go. “John,” he said. One word. That's all it took to turn her into a blubbering mess. He patted her twice on the shoulder and held her away from him, looking into her teary eyes. “There's a good girl.”  
This set her off in another round of tears. He offered her his handkerchief, she smiled up at him and took it out of his hands to mop her face. She began to tuck the soggy mess into her pocket, “I’ll wash it for you.”  
“No, burn it.”  
She looked up at him, horrified until she saw his solemn expression almost sorrowful. She wasn’t sure if it was at the loss of the fine handkerchief or at his possible losses if she couldn’t follow instructions. She sniffed one last time and nodded, “I'll burn it.”

Stamford grasped the mug handle and took a quick gulp, wincing at the heat. His eyes flashed to Sherlock at that moment, with a mixture of pain and sadness before quickly pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock watched him as he moved his hand from his nose, to a pen in his labcoat and thento his trousers where he began to absently drum his fingers on his phone. “You can't tell John,” Sherlock said.  
“Oh, but-” Molly began, twisting her mug around but Sherlock interrupted.  
“Not John, not anyone.”  
“He won't understand,” whispered Molly.  
“He'll understand.”  
“He'll be furious,” said Stamford  
“But he'll be safe,” ground out Sherlock. “He’ll be safe, especially if you two don’t cock up and let on.”  
Molly leaned forward. “But he's spent so much time with you. Surely he knows how to hide something like this. Better than even we can!” She gestured to herself and Stamford.  
Sherlock turned and stopped her with a look. “No, he can't know. He won't know. He'll hope, he'll wish, he'll mourn. He won't know for sure and that's what I want to show. If he knows, he'll look comfortable. You two know and that makes you look uncomfortable and that's what I need right now. I'm hoping you and Stamford can help with that to keep him safe.”  
Stamford stopped tapping his phone at this. Sherlock relaxed as the tapping stopped.  
“We'll keep him safe,” said Molly.  
“Of course,” agreed Stamford. “For England!”  
“And Saint George,” cheered Molly smiling.  
“We happy few,” drawled Sherlock.  
Molly burst into tears, Stamford patted her back.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the display of consoling between the two.  
“You both know what to do.” They nodded, Molly hiccuping through her tears.  
“I'm still not sure if this is legal,” said Stamford. “ I mean technically, we're not killing anyone considering they're already dead and you don't plan on dying but you're going to die anyway and...”  
Sherlock held his hand up but Stamford continued to state the obvious, much to the pain of Sherlock's brain.  
“John will be safe,” whispered Molly. Sherlock turned as she spoke. “Everyone will be safe.”  
“Yes, everyone. They'll have each other.”  
“Molly,” interrupted Stamford, “ have you ever made a mistake with someone's death?”  
Molly thought for a second, “Oh uh, no. No. I'm pretty thorough with my work, and St. Bart's is quite certain about cause of death and usually they stay dead, so no one has ever reversed the cause of death because..”  
“They were still alive,” said Sherlock.  
“Oh god,” whispered Molly.  
“What?” asked Stamford.  
“She'll have to either admit she made a mistake or forged documents and desecrated the dead.” said Sherlock. “We may have to bring in someone else. Grab your phone Molly” 

If Sherlock had thought Molly was difficult, she was nothing compared to the bureacratic minion of the British government. It had taken Molly threatening him with a syringe full of saline solution to get him to listen and go through with his plan.  
“Absolutely not” said Mycroft  
“Molly, get the syringe” said Sherlock.  
“Sherlock!” exclaimed Mycroft.  
“Make sure it's a heavy sedative, Molly. Enough to knock out a rhinoceros as it would appear that brother dearest has put on some weight,” Sherlock circled Mycroft, “He has suddenly lost consciousness due to a blow to the head he suffered after he slipped.”  
“Be reasonable.” said Mycroft warily.  
“Righto,” chirped Molly, flicking the tube of the syringe to loose any air bubbles.  
“I'll revoke your passport!”  
“You'll be unconscious,” said Sherlock.  
“I'll revoke it and put you on the no fly list when I wake up then!”  
“You'll be dead if you don't help us.”  
“So I'm unconscious if I don't and dead if I don't, these aren't very good choices Sherlock. You’ll need to play a bigger hand.”  
“No, my hand is played out.”  
Mycroft eyeballed Molly as she removed the safety cap from the syringe, one single drop glistening at the end of the needle.  
“Molly Hooper, I'll see you never pass another drug test again.” Mycroft said swinging his umbrella.  
“As Sherlock said, not if you're unconscious.”  
Mycroft continued to balk, as Molly continued to advance with her sedative. “Why should I help you? You’ve not told me what I’m playing for. What are the stakes,” Lestrade paced.  
“To high for you to sleep peacefully at night and we all know how much you like your sleep,” whispered Sherlock.  
Mycroft turned and shook his umbrella at Sherlock, “And I know enough to know when you're onto something and you won't share. You get this look.”  
“Ridiculous.”  
“It's when you don't look at me that I know you're onto something and you won't share! Ah!,” said Mycroft, “Don't try to lie to me! Ah, no, come on. Out with it!”  
“John.” Sherlock said.  
“Yeah, what of him?”  
“He'll know if it’s just Molly.”  
“No, he won't. Not if they don't tell him”  
“Yes, he will. He’s persistent, loyal. Come to think of it, even if Molly does leave, he would grow suspicious with her gone and nothing official from the Police. Stamford is staying because John won’t see an obvious connection with me.” Sherlock looked over at Molly as she stood nearby, focused on Mycroft with her syringe. He gave a quick smile. “I'm serious. John will be very serious as well. No stone unturned. He may hunt everyone down if he smells something funny. Before we do that, I'll need help with my death certificate and return. Which reminds me, Molly needs to relocate for a short while and she hasn't found a place to take her yet. Do you have anywhere she could transfer to? Some secret laboratory or morgue? A good case you need her expertise on?”  
Mycroft stared silently at Sherlock.  
“Perhaps we need to fake your death as well,” continued Sherlock gleefully, “that’ll really throw John for a loop.”  
“Mummy wouldn’t like it. She would already be upset at losing a son in such a distasteful public way. What will the servants think. You want my help with this game, I'd rather have the injection.”  
Molly shook her head.  
“No,” said Sherlock. “Moriarty wants you dead if I don't die. You will all die if I don't die. Well, Stamford won't die, which is why he's helping. Do you not understand the seriousness of this situation?”  
“I”m not a bloody school girl! I know how to protect myself and so does John! Why are Molly and I targets?”  
Sherlock looked at his nails before looking away in frustration, “Because he seems to think I care for you all. You are tolerable, I suppose.”  
“Sherlock, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me!” exclaimed Mycroft with his hand on his chest.  
“Oh, for God's sake. I know you and John can take care of yourselves. Barely. Think about Molly and Mrs. Hudson. What about them? Come to think of it, I really should have cultivated a closer relationship with Anderson. I can't believe I've wasted a perfect opportunity.”  
“So the Great Fake Consulting Detective must die.”  
“Finally, it sinks in.”  
“And then you want to have a bit of a Jesus moment?”  
“After I chase the serpents from their caves. But, basically, yeah.”  
Mycroft leaned back against the lab counter, tapped the point of his umbrella on the floor and looked at Sherlock. “We mean that much to you, do we?”  
“Well, I think Molly may be safe. Moriarty will leave her alone for now. But if he knows that she knows I faked my own death, she won't be. He has spun a web. A beautiful, dangerous and delicate web. Disturb one piece of the web and all the spiders descend at once and kill their prey.”  
“Tell me where to look.”  
“I can't”  
“Yes, you can.”  
“No, I can't. What is it going to look like to John to have your people watching out for my people? Especially if you are gone, he’ll know and he won't stop until he finds out what you know. With me out of the picture for the inevitable future, the spiders will leave my people alone and I'll be free to trap them in a web of my own and destroy them.”  
“You can't do that by yourself!” said Mycroft. “At least take Anthea.”  
“Don't be daft. I can do it if your bumbling hands can stay out of my way. What I can't do is this,” he spread his hands out, “without you. When I die, it will have to be official, it will have to be confirmed, in a file, in the news. Dead. Done. The fake detective is no more. But to come back....” he didn't finish.  
“It'll take the hand of God,” said Mycroft.  
“Do we need the biblical references?”  
“Well that's what I'll be doing! Do you know how much paperwork and answering to my supervisors I'll have to do? Oh yes, he died, we got our man. Oh, just kidding, he's alive! Sorry I didn't tell you we fooled you but we had to because the madman told me so! If I don't lose my job for this I'll either be a hero or a villain. Maybe I should retract my God statement and play the part of Judas. You should tell John.”  
“Not an option”  
“Not if you make him leave like you're making me leave.”  
“No, John needs to mourn for real But you don't need to. You wouldn’t have mourned anyway and officially you can’t have anything to do with John once I”m dead because he was my partner and you can't be seen to associate with him.  
“What a shame. I was really starting to like him. He was good for you.”  
“He's too good for me. He doesn't deserve what's going to happen. I wish I could just get him to believe I'm a phony.” Sherlock walked away from Mycroft, tracing his fingers along the chairs.  
“Oh, I see.” said Mycroft smiling.  
“See what?” asked Sherlock, turning. 


	2. Chapter 2

From time to time, in between unraveling Moriarty’s web, Sherlock would silently check on John and Mrs. Hudson, but they never saw him. Some days he’d be an old man, a statuesque young lady or a street bum. Stamford had stayed. He had infrequent and irregular contact with John. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by Sherlock's urging via text from a disposable phone.  
Coffee Shop 123 Bond Street. Go.  
Stamford never asked how Sherlock knew where John was or what he needed. He just plodded along with his duty. “Never joined the military,” he had once said, “figured now was the time to join something greater. Duty, honor, maybe even for the country. You'll catch ‘em Sherlock. You always get your man.”  
“Right,” Sherlock drawled.  
Sherlock watched as John and Mrs. Hudson mourned. He witnessed John’s silent plea to not be dead. As hard as it was to not reveal himself, he kept still, kept silent and let the doctor go. He would be all right. John sank into a depression following Sherlock’s death. Sherlock had watched helplessly as John tried to convince someone, anyone but himself and Mrs. Hudson that the consulting detective wasn’t a fake, Moriarty was real and that one day he would show up. Sherlock wondered if John would put two and two together. He sighed in frustration. Of course he would, he may not be Sherlock but he was far from stupid. Sherlock was afraid that all the noise John made about Moriarty would trigger the assassins.   
Mrs. Hudson made the trek up the stairs to 221B again, a tray with two delicate cups full of tea. She paused at the threshold and looked at her china and tutted. She thought back to a few days ago when, John had broken most of his and Sherlock’s dishes and mugs in a fit of rage. Rage at Sherlock, Mycroft, Scotland Yard, St. Bart’s, Moriarty and the trash men when he heard them through an open window, gossiping on the street about the fake genius and his suicide. John had snapped and thrown what he had been holding in his hands out the window. He managed to chuck a few more objects out the window, but at the last minute Mrs. Hudson had appeared and grabbed poor Yorick from John’s hands.  
“Not him,” she cried. “Not his favorite. Oh, and look at the mess you’ve made! What would Sherlock say?”  
“Nothing,” John had yelled. “Absolutely nothing because he’s dead and he’s not here!”  
“Tsk, you don’t have to go on so. I know he’s not here but still, it’s not respectful of the dead or undead. You leave his things alone.”  
“I shan’t. He left them, it means he doesn’t want them! Same as us!”  
“John!”  
“I’m going out!” John grabbed his coat and fled the apartment.  
Their landlady leaned out the window and saw the broken bits of dishes on the ground. She wouldn’t be able to save them, just like her beautiful tenant wasn’t salvageable.  
“Broken.” she whispered, “Poor dears.” 

She had left him alone after that, he didn’t seem to want any company and she didn’t want him to destroy anything else. She hoped her dainty china would prevent John from another unseemly display of temper, entered the apartment and her eyes widened. Boxes were everywhere, some full, some half full and others not put together yet. “What on earth?” she asked out loud. Had the man not slept?   
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson. There you are.” said John cheerfully. He saw her tray and took one of the dainty cups and took a sip. “Wonderful.”  
“John, what are you doing?”  
“Packing.”  
“Are you leaving?”  
“That’s the point of packing.”  
“But John, some of this isn’t yours!”   
John’s face clouded at this and Mrs. Hudson glanced at her cup in John’s hands. His hand tightened a fraction and he nodded. “I can’t keep a dead man’s things Mrs. Hudson. I’ve thrown out most of his rotted experiments and body parts. I won’t be able to keep up on the rent now that--um, now that, um, Sherlock’s gone.”  
“I’m sure we could work something out dear.”  
“NO!” John yelled, clutching the cup in his hand and raising it. Mrs. Hudson instinctively reached out with her tray and then pulled back, as she regarded John. “Ahem, no. Mrs. Hudson, thank you, but no thank you.” he lowered his arm and relaxed his grip, holding the cup by it’s handle. Mrs. Hudson relaxed, “I have to do this on my own.”  
“But where will you go?”  
“Haven’t the foggiest. I’ve asked around if there was someone looking for a flatmate but, my name comes up and nobody wants to be associated. So no hope there. Looks like I’m on my own for a bit until this blows over.”  
“What are you going to do with Sherlock’s things?”  
John set his teacup back on Mrs. Hudson’s tray and patted her cheek softly. “Would you be a dear and call Mycroft to come pick this lot up when I’m gone?”  
“Mycroft? After you’re gone? Don’t you want to-”  
“No, I don’t. Not that sanctimonious bastard.”  
“Okay. I’ll call him for you dear.” Mrs. Hudson turned and went back down to her apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

John thumped up the stairs to 221B. It would be his last time in this flat, his bags were packed and he was ready to go. He placed his key in the knob, unlocked the door, strode in and came to a halt. Mycroft Holmes was standing with his back to the room, looking out the windows.  
“Get out,” he bit out.  
“No,” replied Mycroft. “You’ve been busy.” Mycroft turned and fingered a box. “Books, experiments, files and personal effects.”  
John stood silently in the doorway. The bag of takeout hanging from his clenched fist. “Get out and take this rubbish with you!” John strode the rest of the way in to the apartment and began to unpack his takeout on the kitchen counter. John turned and glared at Mycroft still standing by the window, rifling through a box of old files. “You’re still here.”  
“Quite observant as always.” Mycroft moved to sit in Sherlock’s old chair.   
John leaned against the kitchen counter and stuffing a forkfull of szechuan chicken in his mouth said “wha d u wat”  
“I’m sorry John, I didn't understand you. Perhaps a little less food in your mouth would help.”  
John swallowed. “What do you want?”  
“That’s better. Mrs. Hudson is concerned about you. She said you were leaving.” John glared silently at Mycroft. “A wall of silence. I see. This isn’t healthy John.”   
“I’m moving on. That’s healthy. If you want to help, take his stuff with you or it’s going in the rubbish bins.”  
“John.”  
“I’m serious Mycroft. Don’t test me.”  
“Do you want to keep any of it?”  
“No. Take it. Take all of it. I don’t need a reminder. I don’t want a reminder. I want my best friend back, my Sher-. Ahem, not his brother and definitely not his stuff. I don’t understand why everyone keeps treating me like a grieving widow!”  
“Come now, that’s not true. At most he was just a colleague, a flatmate. You couldn’t have formed that strong of an attachment in that short period of time. Barely knew each other.”  
“GET OUT!” yelled John pushing off from the kitchen counter, “GET OUT AND TAKE HIS STUFF WITH YOU! YOU DON’T GET IT, NONE OF YOU FUCKING GET IT. NOW GET THIS, GET IT AND GET OUT. I’M LEAVING, I’M DONE AND NOTHING YOU DO CAN STOP ME! DO YOU HEAR ME MYCROFT HOLMES! I HOPE THE ENTIRE BRITISH GOVERNMENT CAN HEAR ME NOW!”  
John leaned back against the kitchen counter and rested his head in his hands, he could hear hurried footsteps on the stair case, one heavy, one light and hesitant. Mrs. Hudson and one of Mycrofts henchmen.   
“John,” said Mrs. Hudson, “is everything all right? You didn’t upset him did you? Oh you did, poor dear. I’ll get you a cuppa. You weren’t supposed to upset him, tsk.”  
John remained in the kitchen as Mycroft gave soft instructions to Mrs. Hudson and his henchman. All of Sherlock’s things were to be removed immediately. “Except the chairs and Yorick.” said John, “leave them and take everything else.”  
There was silence at this statement before he heard Mycroft turn and alter his original instructions. John watched as teardrops silently fell from his face and made small drops on his trousers. Small blobs that he tried to fix images to. A pair of expensive Italian leather loafers appeared in his view. He still didn’t look up.   
“Where will you go?” asked Mycroft  
“Nowhere, anywhere, somewhere but here. I can’t sleep here. There’s too many nightmares.”  
John felt Mycroft leave the room. Mrs. Hudson lingered in the kitchen. “That’ll be all Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure our guests would love a bit of a send off.” She took her cue and left the room before turning to glance one more time at the boxed up bits of clutter. “Such a shame,” she thought to herself. “They had been such a beautiful pair. For one to lose the other was simply heartbreaking.”

John slowly unpacked his suitcase of bits and pieces. He tossed his laptop on the bed and took his box of kitchen things and placed them on the counter in the apartment’s tiny kitchen. A pot, a pan, a couple of plates and a pair of mugs. His Royal Army Medical Corp and Sherlock’s solid white one. He stuck Yorick on the counter and put a teaspoon through his eye socket. “Hold this will you? There’s a good lad.” He made himself a cup of tea and walked to the window that overlooked the street and stared. At everything, at nothing. He turned to the futon that would be both bed and sofa and sat. The chairs would be delivered later in the week. Mycroft’s insistence. John thought it was his way of keeping tabs on him. “New home,” John said to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

John still felt the loss of Sherlock keenly. As if he was still at the edge of his vision. John felt that if he just turned quick enough, he’d catch him, right there. He was sure it must look to others as if he had developed ticks and seizures, the amount of fast turning that he did. But everywhere he looked, there was Sherlock. The papers, the color of a man’s coat, the purple of a ladies dress, a tuft of dark hair blowing in the breeze. A pair of blue eyes looking at him, always the wrong color, the wrong soul staring through. Sometimes John was caught staring, trying to piece the color from memory. This usually ended in him making the other person uncomfortable and John angry. Restless nights of pillow punching and tea drinking were the norm. After his period of mourning and slight funk, he wouldn’t admit to the depression and terrible grief. He was pissed and extremely suspicious. Not obsessed, he said firmly to himself. To believe in something greater than yourself was NOT obsessive or sick. It was a fact. Someone knew something and he’d find that someone and that something or by God the universe would pay. He went looking for answers and for Moriarty’s web. Six months had passed and he discovered that D.I. Lestrade was still refusing all correspondence from John. He was beginning to feel like a stalker He walked to St. Barts and paused on the street, turning briskly away from the last time he had seen Sherlock. He clenched his fist and slammed it against his leg. “Fear,” he said to himself, “is nothing to be afraid of. Get on with it!” He did an about face and almost ran over a pedestrian. “Hey watch it!” they yelled.  
“Sorry,” John replied and continued on.  
“John,” called a voice. He turned slightly and stared. It was Anthea. Mycroft’s top goon. Behind her was a black car with it’s door open.   
“Really?” he asked. “Now!”  
She raised her eyebrow and went back to pushing buttons on her phone. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she looked up and gave him a quick smile.  
“With Mycroft, it’s always trouble. I just saw him six months ago. Is it time for my check-up?”  
“If you say,” she said, walking around to the other side of the car.  
“This is absurd. I’m no longer a-” he paused. “and I’m no longer with-” again a pause. She didn’t even turn her head. “Right.” he walked to the car door and shut it before turning on his heel and stalking off. He smiled, “Piss off, thanks!”  
Mycroft took his phone out of his jacket pocket and glanced at the screen and rolled his eyes. He sent a quick text to another number.   
“John. MH”  
“Bugger off. JW” came the reply.  
“Elegant as always,” sighed Mycroft. He responded to the initial text that disturbed his meeting. “You know what to do.”  
Within minutes, Anthea had a grumpy John stuffed into the back of the black sedan. This time, he wasn’t in a chatting up sort of mood. She never was either, so the car remained silent for the remainder of the journey back to John’s apartment. John turned and glared at Anthea. She smiled at him and nodded to the door. John smiled back, got out, and promptly walked back towards St. Barts.  
“She’s not there either,” came a soft voice. John turned. Damn that man and glared at the elegant figure of Mycroft Holmes. “Come upstairs. I’ve put the kettle on. It’s time we had a talk.”  
John still wasn’t budging. He turned and walked off. Mycroft flicked his hand and the delivery man walking with a cardboard box stepped into John’s path and pushed him with the box. “What?” said John. The man dropped the box at John’s feet. John looked down at the box, slightly perplexed.   
“He asked you nicely,” said the delivery man.  
“I’m sure he did,” said John.  
“I’m not going to ask nicely.”  
John eyed the delivery man up and down. He could take him, but it would be a struggle. One he didn’t want his new neighbors to witness. As it were, Mycroft was being exceedingly obvious.   
“Here’s your package Sir. IF you’ll just sign for it.” the man chirped politely.  
“Yeah, all right. Fine.” John grumbled and scribbled ‘Fuck off’on the signature line. He picked the box up and turned. “Coming?” he asked to Mycroft, “The maid has the tea on.”  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and followed John up the steps to his flat. When they got inside, John dropped the box “Careful,” Mycroft sang out.  
“What for?”  
“Compliments of the British Government and Mummy Holmes Well, not Mummy really. She doesn’t understand.” said Mycroft sitting down in Sherlock’s old armchair.  
John picked the box up and took it into the kitchen “It better not be a severed head.” he muttered as he put the box on the counter and grabbed a knife to open it. He paused and looked up at Mycroft and repeated louder “It better not be a severed head!”  
“I thought you might want it,” said Mycroft softly.  
John sliced the box open and lifted the flaps. He gingerly reached in and touched fabric. Curious, he began to pull the fabric out of the box and shook it out. Sherlock’s trademark, long grey wool coat unfurled and hung from John’s hands. Everything became a blur as he tried to focus on the red button hole. The coat had been cleaned and pressed, the cleaners receipt still pinned to the tag. Whatever there had been of Sherlock was gone. He turned to Mycroft and paused, turned back to the box and lifted the coat, shook his head and turned back once more and with trembling hands, held it out to Mycroft. “Take it,” said John hoarsely, “take it. Take it back, for God’s sake.”   
“No,” said Mycroft. “Is the tea ready yet?”  
“Damn the tea and damn you!” yelled John shaking with rage, misery, sadness, despair and worst of all, love. That one emotion above all emotions that can lift you up to the sun and let you bask in it and and then rip you apart into a million pieces crashing against the rocks. Love was killing him. “Take the coat, take the coat back now! I swear to God I’ll-”John reached for the pair of scissors that he used on the box, opened them and moved to cut the sleeves. “Take it now or I destroy it.”  
Mycroft asked John quietly, “Would you do that?”  
“Yes!”said John shaking.“This isn’t Sherlock, it’s a coat. It doesn’t matter what I do to it, this isn’t Sherlock and he’s not here to wear it.”  
“Then cut it. I’m not stopping you. I thought you would find having a personal effect of my brother’s comforting. I see now that it’s not. If it will help your grief to cut it and cast it aside, by all means, do it.” Mycroft uncrossed his legs and rose, “I can see that I have disturbed you, I’ll take my leave. Enjoy the tea.” Mycroft exited the small apartment leaving John silent and dumbstruck holding a pair of scissors to the grey fabric of a ghost. John slowly put the scissors down and looked back at Sherlock’s coat. His eyes blurred again, filling with tears. He hugged the coat to him and for the first time since Sherlock’s death, had a good cry.


	5. Chapter 5

Traveling from place to place, working to unravel and trap Moriarty’s men. Sherlock was worn, exhausted, furious, and still on the hunt. One more to go, one more to go he says to himself. Moriarty’s top man, Sebastian Moran was still on the loose. Moran is smarter than his brothers, knowing they have fallen one by one, he killed the men assigned to John and Mrs. Hudson and waited for Sherlock. John’s senses were too numb following Sherlock’s death, on the way to the clinic one night, he didn’t even notice the small red dot of a laser pointed at his back when Moran showed Sherlock just how serious he was. Mrs. Hudson kept inviting him in for tea after he helped her with her groceries during the week. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Hopeless that one.

Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer, Mycroft had informed him of John’s departure from 221b to a flat on the outskirts of the city. Sherlock didn’t like this, Mycroft left John alone and unguarded shortly after John threw a fit in public after spotting one of Mycroft’s henchmen following him one afternoon.  
Stupid Mycoft, Sherlock thought.  
John was far from dumb and knew how to spot a rat when he saw one. It didn’t help that John had stood on the street corner and had a go at Mycroft, the British Government using the CCTV’s to record the whole thing. Sherlock smiled,wishing he could have seen the look on Mycroft’s face when he realized his men had been spotted. He would have to steal a copy of the recording.  
Sherlock balled his fists up. It’s been two long and hard years of catching all of Moriarty’s men and now he was at a stalemate with Moran. If he moved the wrong way, nothing would stop Moran from pulling the trigger. If Sherlock wanted John and Mrs. Hudson to live, Moran would have to stay alive for now. He cracked his knuckles and steepled his fingers under his chin. “John.” That one word passed through his brain. All his energy, all his focus honed in on the small, former army doctor.  
It was time to personally check up on him.

 

A few days after playing street bum on the block that John’s clinic was located and reassuring himself that he was okay, he received a text message from Mycroft asking to see him.  
Mycroft sat glaring at Sherlock. He stirred his tea cup gently before resting the spoon on his saucer, lifted the cup to his lips and sipped. This gave him the time to get a good look at his little brother sitting on the edge of the chair across from him. Lean, unkept, discolored hair, cheap tennis shoes, worn jeans, a hoodie underneath a puffer jacket turned inside out. Mycroft wondered what was on the outside of the jacket that caused Sherlock to turn it.  
“Comfortable?” asked Mycroft.  
“Quite.” replied Sherlock  
“Tea?” Mycroft asked, pointing to the extra cup and saucer, “It’s been so long, I’m not sure if I remember how you take it.”  
“Funny.”  
“Anthea, take his coat.” Mycroft said, Anthea rose from where she was sitting near the door.  
“No. Enough of the pleasantries.”  
Mycroft waved Anthea away, she sat back down and returned her focus to her ever present mobile. “Two years and you still haven’t finished it. What will people think of the great Sherlock Holmes.”  
“That I’m not dead yet.”  
“You might want to stay dead.” Mycroft sipped at his tea.  
Sherlock stood up and started to pace the room. “I’ve thought about that. It would be easier.”  
“On who?”  
“Everyone.”  
“You don’t mean that.” Mycroft set his tea aside. “I know lots of people that would enjoy your resurrection.”  
“Who?”  
“Well, for starters, Anthea.”  
Sherlock blinked over at Anthea.  
“No, I wouldn’t enjoy it,” she said as she continued to text. “Official deaths are much easier than official resurrections.”  
“Thank you, Anthea.” said Mycroft.  
Sherlock smirked, “Anyone else?”  
“John.”  
Sherlock looked away, grimacing. “He won’t be pleased to see me. Not after-” he broke off and looked out the window.  
“Why do we hurt the ones we love? Hmm?” asked Mycroft. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft stirring his tea with a smug little smile on his face. He opened his mouth to offer a retort but Mycroft got the jump on him. “We’ve lost track of Moran, by the way.” Mycroft turned back to his tea cup, gave it a half turn and picked it up again, sipping the warm liquid.  
Sherlock rose from his chair and began to pace “When?”  
“After you put in a personal appearance near the clinic. It would seem you showed your hand.” Mycroft smiled at his brother.  
“Why did you have to be so clumsy?” Sherlock snapped at Mycroft.  
“I didn’t expect him to be that observant.” Mycroft sighed. “What can I say, you must have had an effect on his senses. Pity. He was such a nice, normal lad.”   
“Was?” Sherlock asked.  
“My apologies. Present tense. He is such a nice normal lad unless Moran gets to him first. Then, past tense.”  
Sherlock stopped pacing the thought of John alone and vulnerable to Moran froze him in place. Without saying anything else to Mycroft, he turned and walked out of his office.  
“Where are you going?”asked Mycroft.  
“To fix your mistake.”

Sherlock had to get to John before Moran did. He went to Amherst Street, picking a corner down the block but still keeping himself diagonally across from John’s apartment building. He put his hood up and jiggled a paper cup in front of him assuming the role of one of the homeless to watch for John. Eventually, John emerged from the building, pausing to hold the door open for a lady with a dog while she exited and smiled her way before striding off down the street.  
Sherlock followed him to a cafe two blocks over, ducking into the nearest phone booth and lifting the receiver to his ear,striking up a fake conversation. He watched as John entered the cafe and selected a counter seat at the window. Sherlock finished his fake conversation and put the receiver back. As he stepped out of the booth, another pedestrian jumped in after him fumbling for coins smiling sheepishly at Sherlock,“Forgot my mobile at home. Stupid.”  
“Quite,” said Sherlock dryly. He continued towards the cafe, slowing his walk and keeping his head down as he approached the window. He turned his head just as he passed the spot John was sitting at and stared into the cafe.


	6. Chapter 6

The soft London rain began to fall and patter softly on the awning and sidwalk outside the cafe. John sipped his coffee, when he began to feel a bit peculiar, as if he was being watched. “Mycroft,” he grumbled and quickly set his cup down and flicked his eyes out the cafe window, hoping to catch one of Mycrofts minions. He caught a glimpse of a lanky man with a startlingly familiar pair of blue eyes passing by. He came off his chair as the man winked at him before moving off. John stared at the back of the retreating figure. He fell back down into his chair with a solid thud and grabbed for his coffee cup, a slight shaking of the liquid the only betrayal of his shock. He muttered to himself softly, encouraging himself to get a grip as he put his cup back and pulled on his jacket. He threw a couple of bills on the table and headed outside. He was still muttering to himself over what he thought he saw that he hardly even noticed the traffic light ahead until a stranger had to grasp his arm to prevent him from getting run over at the crosswalk. John stood, staring dumbly at the kind pedestrian. When the light changed, John remained standing at the corner. The passing pedestrians stared at the small blond man as he stood in the rain, London dripping all around him. He looked up and let the rain fall on his face. Slowly and steadily his breathing turned irregular, into fits and starts, gasps and heartbreak. His vision blurred as his eyes filled with the cold London rain mixing with his own tears.  
“Impossible,” he thought, “This is just a dream. Get a hold of yourself. It’s a manifestation. You’re having a psychotic break down, that’s all. Too much coffee and late nights, not enough sleep.” He slapped his hands against his cheeks and jiggled his knees. “I need to walk,” said John suddenly out loud surprising the old lady next to him.  
“All right dear,” she said, “Don’t need to know all your business. Take yourself off then.”  
John nodded, “Right.” He spun on his heel and continued to walk until he found himself outside his old flat.  
221B.  
He looked up at the door and then up to the windows. “I bet you would have loved to have left as well, but that would have looked strange to see a building walking down the street.” said John. “I’m seeing ghosts and now I’m out on the streets of London talking to a bloody building.” He rubbed his hands across his face and began to walk off. The sound of fast, heavy footsteps behind him had him turning until the back of his coat was suddenly grabbed and twisted from behind. He yelped as the force of the grip pulled him around, roughly hauling him up the stairs and through the doorway. “Hey!” he shouted as he tried to twist around. A hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off further protest as he was pulled into the hallway before being shoved face first into the wall. He managed to jab an elbow back into the soft midsection of his attacker. The stranger’s hands relaxed enough to allow John to turn his head. He knew if he had been a Tex Avery cartoon character at that moment, his eyes would surely have been three feet out of their sockets at the sight before him.

 

Sherlock stood with John Watson in front of him, pressed against the wall of the hallway, his hand now loosely covering John’s mouth. He could feel John gasp in surprise, he used that moment of shock to finally spin him around, his arm braced against John’s chest, pinning him to the wall. John’s hands came up to scrabble at Sherlock's coat before finding purchase, grasping at the material and opened it to shove a hand inside. Surprised, Sherlock froze, his eyes closing at the feel of John’s cold, rain soaked fingers reaching his bare skin between his buttons and coming to rest over his heart. John was still in a state of disbelief and didn’t think it was possible, this must be a ghost, but the apparition stayed still as John’s hand made actual contact. He blinked a couple of times in silence. He felt the steady thumping of a heart, property of one Sherlock Homes, address 221B Baker St., London. The world became a sudden, violent tilt-a-whirl and it was dumping John out. Sherlock gasped and grabbed for the smaller man as John began to slump forward, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he crumpled before him.  
“John!” he cried. “John, oh God no!” He lowered John slowly to the floor. “Oof, I would say you weigh a ton, but that would be a horrible lie. What have you done to yourself?” he asked out loud.  
John’s once robust frame was lighter and more brittle then Sherlock remembered. He’d used John as a murder dummy before, dragging the usually grumbling and unwilling but limp form across the floor to test out drag patterns using different footwear.  
“Don’t be dead,” whispered Sherlock, “Please don’t be dead. To survive a war and then to die like this. It’s not dignified, John.” Sherlock brought his hands up to John’s throat, feeling for a pulse and stopped when he found one. He thanked the All Mighty and cradled the slight figure to him. He was soaking wet, Sherlock could see the gooseflesh on his skin. His lips were slightly blue and there were large, dark, and bruise like circles under the delicate skin of his eyes. Sherlock brought John closer and slowly rocked with him, he rested his cheek upon his forehead, feeling the chill of John’s skin against his own. He leaned back and looked into John’s pale face, brushed his short hair with his fingers and pressed his lips to John’s temple, to his cheek and then finally to his cold lips.


	7. Chapter 7

John came awake to a warm pressure on his lips, completely disoriented, he began to kiss back. He yelped as he was suddenly and quite roughly pressed to the kisser. “Air!” John gasped past the other lips and was dropped like a hot potato. He blinked his eyes open, to find Sherlock looking back at him. John’s lips pressed firmly together before he threw as much weight as he could behind the fist that landed on Sherlock’s jaw, knocking him backwards. “You bastard!” yelled John from above before landing another punch in Sherlock’s abdomen.   
“Oof!” grunted Sherlock. John lunged at him as he made an attempt to roll away but stopped him by grabbing hold of the nasty grey hoodie and pulling him back. John threw a leg over him as he tried to gain the upper hand. “Ow!” John cried out as his hair was caught by Sherlock who forcibly pulled him down, tucking John to him. John dug a knee into Sherlock’s thigh, pinching the skin into the floor. He could hear Sherlock’s teeth click together in pain.  
“Damnit John!”yelled Sherlock. He freed his other arm and held on tight as John continued to pummel him in the ribs with his fists. Sherlock waited for the moment to pass. When John had worn himself out from his attack, he went limp and rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock brought a hand up to John’s back and rubbed his hand back and forth, soothing the man as best he knew how. “Shh, shh.”   
John turned his head until his lips were but a fraction of a space from Sherlock's ear. “You inconsiderate beast, I hate you!” whispered John. Sherlock turned his head at this, capturing John’s head against his shoulder.   
“Do you?”  
John grasped Sherlock’s hood and burried his face further into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I hate that you went away without telling me. You left me alone! After all this time, you’ve finally come back and I hate that I don’t want to let you go! And what hurts the most”John began to cry, softly at first and then with greater sobs as the realization that Sherlock was real sunk in, “is that I hate that I figured out I loved you after it was too late! I hate that you left me alone with that knowledge. I hate you!” .  
“John-” Sherlock began.  
“No,” said John jerking his head away. He wiped his face and attempted to get off of Sherlock.  
“No,” Sherlock held John tighter and wrapped an arm and a leg around him. “I’ll leg wrestle you for this.”  
John let go a bark of laughter.  
Sherlock smiled, “In fact, in your condition I’m more than likely to win.  
“I hate you.”  
“Obviously.”  
“I hate that word.”  
“I know.”  
John struggled harder to get up. Sherlock released him but only to follow him. John backed up, trying to find space and maintain distance, but Sherlock only closed it again, his long legs closing the distance swiftly. John’s heels hit the stairs when he stepped away from Sherlock’s reach and he began to step up backwards.  
“What are you doing?” asked John tripping over his feet.  
Sherlock continued to back John up the stairs. John blinked and blushed as Sherlock continued to stare at him with such intent, as if he were studying some unclassified specimen splayed out before him and was trying to decide on it’s genus and species. John made it to the landing outside their old apartment door while Sherlock was still on the steps, slightly lower than John, bringing them to eye height. Sherlock reached out and grabbed the front of John’s coat, bringing him forward until they were nose to nose.  
“I know that look.” said John, hoarsely.  
“What look?” Sherlock asked huskily, hovering a hairs breadth from John’s lips with his own.  
“Like you’re going to experiment on something,” John said shaking his finger at him, trying to resist completing the touch of his lips.  
“Maybe I am.” said Sherlock, “Have you ever lived with only half your heart? For two years I was living with only half a heart. It makes it difficult to live. But the problem, you see is that I didn’t know I was missing half of it. It hurt. A continuous pain, right here,” he grabbed the chunk of material over his chest and squeezed, “I didn’t know why. Most people would blame stress, anxiety, maybe even a bit of indigestion.”  
“What are you saying?”John asked as Sherlock took the final step up and inched John back to the   
doorway. He opened the door and herded John in. Sherlock’s things were still in the apartment. Mycroft hadn’t removed them as promised.   
“What I’m saying, John, is that I finally figured out what that feeling was. That feeling I couldn’t define. That hurt? It was you.” Sherlock said, reaching for John and crushing him against himself. He lifted the smaller man higher, until all of John’s weight sealed the kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

John finally lay peacefully in Sherlock’s arms, having drifted off to sleep. Sherlock tucked John’s head down and pulled him closer, resting his chin on his head . Two years of running and hunting all coming to this moment. Sherlock had John safe in his arms, the tension beginning to ease from his body and he could finally relax. He rubbed his chin and then his cheek against John’s short, blond hair. “What have the years done to you, John?” he murmured to himself, fingering the grey strands that streaked John’s hair. He touched the fine skin below John’s eyes, still dark but with a slight flush now and softly petted John’s cheek, slowly willing himself to relax further until John snuffled, stiffened and began to shake. Sherlock woke from his drowse and cuddled the small man closer.  
“Sherlock!” cried John in his slumber.  
“Shhh John, shh. I’m here, I’m here.” Sherlock whispered and kissed the top of John’s head. John’s free hand reached up and slid into Sherlock’s hair, gripping a handful in such a way that had Sherlock smiling. “No John,” said Sherlock, reaching his hand to curl into John’s short strands, “I won’t let you go either.” John began to relax as the voice of Sherlock reached him through his nightmare. John’s fingers curled one last time, his hand firmly locked into Sherlock's hair as he mumbled “Bloody idiot.” Sherlock smiled and chuckled, the deep sound reverberating through John. A ghost of a smile flitted across John’s face.

A small sound, something softer than mouse feet made it’s way through Sherlock's sleep fogged brain. He became instantly awake, keeping his eyes shut, he made a snuffle sound and tried to turn his head but was brought up short, something cold was pressed into his head. Still feigning sleep, he lifted a hand and rubbed his nose.  
“I know you’re awake.” Said a very soft, sibilant voice.  
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the tanned, blond man standing over him wearing all black. A large scar ran across his face, cracking it into pieces, like a broken window.   
“Moran.” whispered Sherlock.  
“At your service,” hissed Moran. He placed a finger against his lips and pressed his gun more firmly against Sherlock’s head, burying the tip close to John’s hand, almost touching it. He tipped his head to the side and looked at John. He removed a second gun from his shoulder holster and slowly extended it out towards John. Panic Sherlock had never known came rushing through him, locking in his chest, closing his throat and his eyes. His breathing quickened as he lay there, helpless when Moran’s gun finally pointed to John. Using the tip of the gun barrel, Moran slowly pulled the sheet down, exposing John’s shoulder, showing the edges of John’s scar. Moran continued to expose John, guiding the sheet down until he reached the small of his back. Moran slowly moved back into an upright position, both guns still aimed at Sherlock and John.   
“He is quite beautiful isn’t he?” Moran smiled as Sherlock growled.  
“Shh. I wondered who you valued more. Mrs. Hudson or the good Doctor.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered at the mention of Mrs. Hudson.  
“She’s still alive,” Moran whispered, “but barely. She makes a wonderful cup of tea. Knows the local gossip.”  
Sherlock's lip began to curl, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Moran returned his gaze to John. His bare skin still exposed. Sherlock moved his hand from John’s head in an attempt to reach the sheet to re-cover John. “Ah, ah ah.” said Moran pressing his gun harder against Sherlock‘s temple. He re-holstered the gun that had been pointing at John, focusing all of his attention on the one against Sherlock’s head instead, pressing it harder until Sherlock gritted his teeth against the pain and horror as Moran reached his tanned, calloused hand to John’s head and softly stroked his hair over Sherlock's’ hand. John made a slight noise in his sleep and tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair, shifting himself. Moran looked back to Sherlock and smiled. “He’s adorable. A gem amongst men. It’s a pity I’ll have to take his heart. You’ll understand of course. An eye for an eye.”  
Sherlock glared his hate and fear at Sebastian Moran. He motioned for Sherlock to get up. Sherlock didn’t want to leave John so vulnerable, he shook his head in negation. He tried to shift to block John.   
“Get up.” whispered Moran. “I’m not going to kill him” Sherlock relaxed for a moment but then Moran continued. “I’m going to destroy him by taking you. For real this time. When he wakes up, you won’t exist again, ever. No one will believe him this time. He’ll think he’s gone mad, and in the end, he will.”


	9. Chapter 9

John lay relaxed in slumber until a slight shiver passed through him. Still groggy with sleep, he flailed a hand around until he grasped the sheet and pulled it up. Warmer now, he started to drift back into dreamland.   
“Oi.” Came a loud voice. “Oi, wake up!” Hands shook John, waking him further.  
“Wha, who?” John asked, jerking awake and into a sitting position. A hooded figure moved away from his bed to join three other’s standing in a huddle at the end of the bed. The ceiling light flared on, blinding John for a moment. He threw his hands up in front of his face, “For Christ’s sake!” John rubbed his hands over his face, forcing his eyes to adjust. He held a hand up, blocking the light and squinted at the huddle of hooded figures now standing together.   
“Had a rough one huh?” said the one on the far right.  
“Looks it,” said another.  
One of them grabbed his foot under the covers and shook it, “Hey, wake up!”  
John pulled his foot back and reached for the bedside table, belatedly realizing that he wasn’t in his apartment, he was in 221B and with the light on, finally saw that Sherlock was gone.  
“What have you done?” asked John scooting as far back as he could against the headboard, “Where’s Sherlock?”  
“Oh, he’s a fast’un.” laughed the figure to the far left.  
“Catching on, huh?” asked the shortest one next to him.  
“It’s what we’re trying to tell you.” said the foot shaker. The foot shaker handed a wad of clothes out to John who eyeballed the peace offering. After accepting it, the foot shaker sat on the edge of the bed. John pulled his shirt over his head. Feeling less exposed, he grumbled at the foot shaker, “Have a seat then.”  
“Don’t mind if I do.” he said tucking his feet under him  
“Come on, quick man!” said the smallest one impatiently.  
“Oi, who’s in charge here?” snapped the foot shaker. John made the deduction that the foot shaker was the leader since he had done the waking, most of the talking and now the bed sitting.  
“Right, little late for a bed time story, isn’t it?” asked John, trying to get dressed under the sheets. When he realized how futile that was after pulling his boxers on with the leader sitting on his bed, he swung his legs out and stood up, “Guys, what’s going on?”  
“I’m not a guy!” said the smallest of the group.  
“Shit,” said John rushing into his clothes at break neck speed, almost knocking himself over.  
“Thinks you’re a boy,” snickered the one on the right. “Oh, that’s right funny! Ow!” The smallest one had elbowed “her” friend in the gut.  
“Bastard,” she snarled.  
The intruders finally pushed their hoods back and John saw dirty, youthful faces. Three boys, one with stuck-up red hair and freckles on the left. The one on the right had long brown hair tied in a queue. The boy sitting on his bed had close cropped black hair, and glasses with multiple piercings in his ear, the one girl had hair that was a faded turquoise color and she bore a ring through her nose. He breathed a sigh of relief. “The ‘Holmes Network’.”  
“Told ya he was quick,” said the long haired boy smiling, he propped himself up against the footboard with both hands.   
“Kinda cute,” said the girl, twirling the end of her hair around her finger. She gave John a good once over from head to toe. “Nice arse.”  
“Ay, wotch it. Sherly won’t like you eye’n ‘is doctor.” laughed the red head jostling the girl with his elbow.  
“I’m not...I mean...erm...thanks. I think. Oh geez. Okay. So not having this conversation.” John managed to stammer out.  
The girl winked at him. “How was it?”   
“Uh,” John blushed at the question, “None of your damn business,”   
The boys laughed at the girl, she kicked the red head in the ankle, “the business at hand!” she said.   
“Right,” said the leader from the bed. He turned back and looked up at John who was still standing. “Sherlock’s in trouble. Big trouble, well, it’s always big trouble with ‘im. You think ‘e goes looking for it.”  
“Trust me, he does.” sighed John, shaking his head.  
“Figured. You gotta go.” the leader said pointing quickly at John.  
“Go where? Hang on, he was just here.” John said looking about the room as if he expected Sherlock to pop out of the closet. “What are you talking about?”  
“Spell it out for him, yo.” said the long haired boy doing push-ups off the foot-board.  
The leader looked at John and rubbed his hand through his short hair. He rolled his eyes and spoke softly, “The assassin has Sherlock. I don’t know his name, Sherlock never said it, but we was told to keep an eye on him. Big blond guy, scars on his face, said you wouldn’t know him so it don’t make no difference if we knew his name or not. Less information we had, less danger we was in. You get me?”  
John stared at the boy, “I’ve seen you, haven’t I? On the corner, lounging about, making a nuisance of yourselves.”  
“Yup, tha’s us.” the girl confirmed hitching her thumb at her chest.  
“And where us was, so was ‘im” the red head crossed his arms..  
“Catching it all yet?” asked the leader still looking up at John as he began to pace.  
“Where are they now?” John asked stopping and looking down at the leader, concern filling his eyes.  
“We don’t know. We’re following him now. He means business that one. Nothings going to stop ‘im from finishing off Sherlock. We got orders to leave him alone though.”  
“Orders from whom?”asked John, sitting back down on the bed.  
“Sherlock. ‘E said not to touch ‘im. That ‘e was right deadly and that we’d only end up screwing it up and get ourselves killed. Didn’t argue with ‘im.”  
“I did,” the girl raised her hand.  
“You argue with everyone,” quipped the long haired boy.  
“I only argue with the people who are wrong.” the girl pointed at the red head.  
“Aaaa!” the red head exclaimed.  
“Be right next time.” she sneered.  
“So, now what?”interrupted John as the two began to squabble.  
“Now, the assassin has Sherlock.” the leader explained. “We’re not sure what our orders are about this, so we’ve come and got you, seeing you’re his official second in command.”  
“Second in command.” repeated John. He looked at the expectant faces and sat quietly for a few minutes.  
“Gris,” said the leader to the girl, “Where’d you put it?”   
“In the kitchen”   
“Go and get it, looks like we’ll need it.”  
John watched as the girl retreated from the bedroom. The other boys finally got onto the bed, the red head lounging, smiling at John. The girl returned with a cardboard container full of coffee cups. “We brought coffee.” She moved towards him and as he just continued to stare at her, offered it to the leader instead. She held the carrier back out to John.  
“Thank you,” he pulled a cup out, stood up with it and began to pace. The girl took his vacant spot on the bed and passed the other cups around. “Right, said John after taking a sip.   
“So now what?” asked the red head as he blew on his cup, cooling it down.  
“Now what,” repeated John staring at the wall.  
The leader eyed him over his own coffee cup.  
Footsteps thudded up the steps to the apartment, everyone turned. A phone vibrated in the leader’s pocket. He pulled it out and punched a couple of buttons. “It’s Stevie. He’s got news. Let ‘im in.” The long haired boy got up and went to the apartment door. John could hear a low, whispered conversation happening outside the room. The apartment door opened and foot steps retreated. “We got ‘im” said the long haired boy coming back into the bedroom.   
The leader rose from the bed, “Where?”  
“Second star to the right, straight on till morning.”  
“Damn,” whispered the leader, rapidly tapping his cup with his index finger.   
John stood up, “What? Where’s he got him? Couldn’t he have just texted you the location?”  
The leader rolled his eyes. “No, it’s electronic. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. No getting it back. We text pass phrases is all. Those are changed verbally.”  
John nodded, “I know why Sherlock works with you.”  
“Unfortunately, the assassin took him to a place with a lot of hidey holes.” The leader returned to the bed and sat on the edge. He patted the bed, beckoning John to rejoin them.  
“Where, exactly?” said John, returning to the rumpled bed. He looked over to the spot that he had left Sherlock in his sleep. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, if only he’d have managed to stay awake afterwards, this wouldn’t have happened. He slammed his fist into his thigh.  
“Second star to the right, straight on till morning.” the leader repeated watching John. They all gazed at him expectantly. The girl stood up and came around to stand by John and the bedside table. She rested her hand on his shoulder. He smiled up at her and looked back to the leader.  
“Peter Pan!”exclaimed John smiling, snapping his fingers.  
“Exactly.”  
“Why not closer, here at Regent’s Park? Why go way out there?” John asked, confused.  
“I’m going to not answer that based on the fact that it’s a rhetorical question.”the leader sipped daintily from his cup.  
“Sorry.”   
“Wot now?” interrupted the red head sitting further up.  
“I need to think, I need to think.” said John, “ Do you have people on him?”  
“Yeah, but we’re not fighters. Some of us can fight, some of us can....not. Especially not at his level.” said the leader shaking his head and secretly pointing behind him towards the red head.  
“That’s Assassin’s Creed level shit,” exclaimed the long haired boy. “I mean it’s cool in a video game, but real life. Man that shit’s not something to mess with.  
“It doesn’t matter. You know how to make a nuisance of yourselves, right?” asked John  
“Hey now,”warned the red head.  
“He’s right,” agreed the leader.  
“So, tell your mates to make as much of a nuisance as they can of themselves. Loud noises, skateboards, heckling pedestrians, turning over trash bins, loud music. Don’t give him a quiet place to work.” John leaned closer to the leader and said quietly, “Disturb the fucking peace.”   
“Right,” the leader pulled his cell phone back out and started texting. He turned the phone over and showed it to John “OFF TO NEVERLAND! ROCK THE NIGHT”  
“Okay.”John was slightly confused, “Whatever that means.”  
“They’ll know what to do.” the leader nodded in satisfaction. “Good call.”  
John watched as they all pulled out their cell phones and started texting for aid. “Um, sorry. I didn’t catch your names.”  
The leader looked up, “Isaac.”  
“Mark,” waved the red head.  
“Griselda, you can call me Gris. Call me any time.” she flashed her phone at him.  
“And no, don’t call her. Trust me. I’m Rami, it means trustworthy”  
“No it doesn’t you jack ass,” said Gris, dismissing him.  
“Okay,”Isaac held both hands full of coffee and cell phone in the air,” Enough you guys. Take a break. Messages sent. Now what?” He turned back to John.  
“A couple more,” John took his phone out and scrolled through the address book and showed the numbers he wanted them to use. They all tapped away. “Now, we go. The public nuisance will buy us time and police. He’ll have to move him around a lot to find a quiet place. Make sure you keep your guy on him.”  
“Got it, let’s go guys.” Isaac ordered, pulling his hood back up, “Head ‘em up, move ‘em out!”  
John grabbed his jacket and led the way down the steps of 221B and out into the starry, cold night of London.


	10. Chapter 10

Moran was forced to keep moving Sherlock around the park he had chosen to do his final work. It was suddenly too crowded, he could hear a group of skateboarders rolling and clunking on the other side of the hedges he was currently secluded by. “Merde,” he grumbled under his breath. A bark of laughter came through the hedge again, this time too close for Moran’s comfort. It was time to move. He felt Sherlock shift, letting go of the zipties holding Sherlock’s hands behind his back, he dug his fingers into Sherlock's hair and grabbed a hand full, twisting it tight. Sherlock winced and shifted again. Moran smiled, the consulting detective was bare foot, wearing only his jeans and t-shirt from earlier and nothing else.  
“Just like an animal,” Sherlock smiled at Moran. “Have to find a quiet spot for your last meal.”  
“Welcome to my parlor,” snarled Moran.  
“I thought Moriarty was the spider and you were the web. A tool.” Sherlock drawled.  
Moran chuckled and removed a gun from his shoulder holster. He jabbed it into Sherlock’s back, “Walk.” he said.  
Sherlock didn’t budge.   
“Walk.” Moran hissed, pressing his gun further into Sherlock’s side, just below the ribs.  
“And why should I?” asked Sherlock, trying to press back, “You may as well just kill me now. You could have done it several spots ago, but now you’re just wasting my time.”  
“Am I now?” whispered Moran. “I can do anything I want.”  
Moran scooted closer to Sherlock and re-holstered his gun. Slightly surprised, Sherlock jerked, eyes widening. Moran pulled Sherlock’s head back until he was right up against him and rested a hand lightly upon his waist. He dug the point of his chin into the tendon in between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. Sherlock reacted naturally to the pressure and jerked, his head capturing Moran’s head against his shoulder, until they were united in a grotesque lover’s embrace. He released Sherlock’s hair to slide his hand to Sherlock’s throat, making sure Sherlock was secured snugly against him. “Oh what I wouldn’t do to you now,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “You’re right, as you usually are. I could do you right now, right here. I don’t think anyone would care.” Moran captured Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth and bit down. Sherlock made a small noise of disgust. Moran slowly released Sherlock’s ear and said “But I want somewhere private, where it’s just you and me.Without any interruptions. I want all of your attention, just like you gave the good Doctor. I told you I would take John’s heart.” At the mention of John’s name, Sherlock tensed and his lips curled back. Moran chuckled. “You thought I meant you. I’m flattered.”  
“The hell you are!” growled Sherlock. He kicked his foot back, into Moran’s knee. Moran grunted and released Sherlock and pushed him forward. Sherlock turned and faced Moran.   
The blonde man smiled at Sherlock and walked forward, hands behind his back, mirroring Sherlock. “Oh, what fun we are having now!”  
“You’re going to kill me.” stated Sherlock calmly.  
“Maybe, maybe not,” sang Moran softly, giving a small skip.  
“You’re not going to touch John.”   
“Maybe just a little.” Sang Moran again holding his thumb and forefinger to shape a small pinch.  
Sherlock stood, bare feet braced apart, his thin shirt fluttering in the breeze and shook his head. “John isn’t your end game. I am.”  
Moran leaned forward on the balls of his feet. “Yes, you are. Sort of. ”  
“Wha-” started Sherlock, panicked. “No. Oh no.”  
“Oh, yes.” Moran clapped his hands together, “Bravo, detective. You’re almost as smart as Moriarty was led to believe.You’ll believe anything if it will protect John. Now that’s a man worth knowing. Tonight, when I’m done with you, perhaps I’ll get to know him better.” Moran watched as Sherlock tensed. “Are you going to run? I love it when they run. I wouldn’t mind getting a good glimpse of your backside before I leave you.”  
“Will it get you to shoot me?”  
“Sadly, no. But it will give me great pleasure.”  
Sherlock stood still and watched as Sebastian Moran approached him. Moran unholstered a gun and reached out for Sherlock’s arm. “Moving on,” he said. “Let’s find a place to stash you for the night.”


	11. Chapter 11

John and the Holmes Network ran down Baker Street until he nixed that idea and hailed a cab. On the way, more texts were received and sent. “The Network can hear him, but they can’t see him,” said Isaac, scrolling through his phone. He twisted to show John, elbowing Gris in the process who was sitting on Rami’s lap.   
“Just tell them to keep looking, spread out, but not alone.” John flipped through his phone and sent more messages to Stamford, Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly. Griselda looked over his shoulder, “The fake genius’s death was all over the papers. That D.I wouldn’t even see you. They’re not going to believe any of this. Why are we asking them for help?”  
“Something tells me they’ve been helping all along while I’ve just been left out. When I get hold of Sherlock-” John stopped and looked at Griselda.  
“Gonna do something different hey?” She winked at him.  
“Never you mind.” He said sternly to her.  
“So I see. And we all can don’t you know.” Gris said, reaching over to tap John’s neck.  
“What?” John asked confused.  
“You look like you been ‘ttacked by an octopus.” chirped Mark. “Aren’t you guys too old for that sort of behavior.”  
John gaped at the lot of them, much like the fish stuck in the octopus’s tentacles. He rubbed the side of his neck.“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
“Here’s our stop.” Isaac said as the cab came to a halt near the Queensway tube stop. They piled out, John paid the cabbie and off it zoomed. They stood looking at the dark paths spreading into the park from the street.   
“Right,” said John, “take us to the last location.”  
The group ran off down a set of paths until they came to the Diana Memorial Playground and came upon some teenagers on the swings. “Mick!” said Isaac,“What’s to report?”  
“Stopped here a bit, moved on after. Think he’s headed to the sunken gardens or Queen Vic. I dunno. We’re camped here, make sure he don’t come back this way.”  
“Good on you, remember don’t take ‘im on!”   
“Right-o,” saluted Mick.   
Isaac turned to John, “Two choices, one chance.”  
John stopped to think. Sunken Gardens or Queen Victoria. He shook his head in frustration, he couldn’t possibly guess what was going through the assassin’s mind. He could barely focus on his own disjointed thoughts. “Garden’s or Queen, Garden’s or Queen,” he repeated to himself. “Isacc,” he said out loud and turned, “Do you have anything? Any eyes on him?”  
Isaac held up his silent phone. The last text highlighted “Hide and seek.” He turned to the others, but they all shook their heads and held their phones out to John. They all contained much the same message. He heard a ping and turned to Rami. He opened his messages. “Shit,” he said, turning the phone so the others could see it. “Lost.”  
“Damn.” said John, turning again trying to think. His phone pinged with an incoming text message. He opened his messages and found a few waiting for him.  
On my way - Molly  
Are you making all that racket? - G.L.  
I should have known you were making all that racket - M.H.   
Headed out - Stam  
“Well, that’s really helpful,” hissed Griselda.   
John held his hand up for silence and texted back to the four, encouraging them to move it or lose it. “Right. One chance my ass, we’re splitting up. Isaac, Mark, head to the Queen’s memorial. Don’t engage, just text us. Gris, Rami, come with me to the Sunken Gardens. Isaac, get everyone to the south west end of the park, below us. Have them start back up on the outside and work their way in.” John directed.  
John and his small contingent of the Holmes Network ran as fast as they could down Board Walk, splitting up into the smaller groups as John had instructed until they heard a gunshot followed by a scream. They came to a stop. “No,” whispered John, “please no.”   
“Sounds like it came from the Sunken Garden’s” Isaac pointed down the other path.  
“Right,” nodded John, “looks like it’s just one choice now. Let’s go guys.” Together, they ran towards the Sunken Gardens listening to John pray along the way.


	12. Chapter 12

Moran stopped walking with Sherlock. He looked around and listened. Finally, peace and quiet. He released Sherlock again, spinning him around, he placed a hand on his chest and pushed until the backs of Sherlock’s knees touched the rough wood of a park bench.  
“Sit,”growled Moran.   
Sherlock remained standing. Moran pressed his gun to Sherlock’s forehead.  
“Sit,” he bit out again.   
This time, using the muzzle of the gun, he pushed Sherlock’s head back until he had taken Sherlock’s balance, forcing him to sit down on the bench. Moran smiled softly until Sherlock finally took advantage and ducked under Moran’s arm, driving his shoulder into Moran’s midsection and tackling him to the ground. A shot rang out as Moran’s finger squeezed the trigger in response.  
“Fuck!” Moran yelled as he misfired.   
He brought his elbow up and struck Sherlock hard, on the back. He heard Sherlock grunt from the blow and then shuffle around, trying to get his knees under him in the process to avoid being shot. Moran grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and yanked, trying to throw him to the side. He stopped abruptly when Sherlock jammed his knee into his balls and Moran screamed into the night sky nearly bucking Sherlock off. Rage filled him at the sound of Sherlock’s laughter above him, as if he were impotent. Moran pulled Sherlock’s hair again and slammed the butt of his gun hard, into Sherlock's’ temple, cutting into the skin and stunning the detective. Moran released Sherlock's hair and grasped his hip with his free hand, securing him. He watched as the detective weaved gently above him, head slightly turned, eyes unfocused. It was possibly the most beautiful thing Moran had seen in a long time.  
“So pretty, such a pity.” Moran said. As he waited for Sherlock’s eyes to refocus on him, he stretched his fingers up under Sherlock’s shirt and stroked the soft skin of his stomach. Once he had Sherlock’s attention, he smiled “That’s better,” he said, lifting his gun and pointing it at Sherlock’s chest. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Moran smiled as Sherlock closed his eyes, and then he watched in horror as something struck his hand, knocking his weapon away.

John charged forward to the duo on the ground, “What the fuck was that?”  
“A mango!” yelled Griselda following John. “I took it from the grocers. Thought it would come in handy!”  
“Of all things Gris! You bring a fucking mango to a gunfight!” Mark panted as he ran.  
“Why not? It did a better job than you!”  
John reached the two men right as the assassin tried to throw Sherlock off of him pushing Sherlock’s heavy weight into John. He staggered a bit under Sherlock’s weight, but recovered and closed his eyes, whispering “Thank you, thank you, thank you” under his breath. He opened his eyes and saw the assassin attempt to reach for his shoulder holster.  
“He’s got another gun!” yelled John, turning to the others. He hugged Sherlock to him tightly and twisted, pulling himself off balance. “Move, move!” he started and then stopped as Griselda who had been following him closely jumped on one of the assassin’s free arms, “I got him!”  
Mark, leaping over Griselda and capturing the other arm, “I got the other one! Ha, they said he was dangerous. Hey Rami, get his feet.”  
Rami came around and hugged the assassin’s legs. Together, they all looked up at Isaac, who sighed.   
“Well,” came a soft voice from behind, “It’s a little late for party games isn’t it. Do let me know when you’re done with your little game of Twister and we’ll sort him out for you.”  
John turned to see Mycroft Holmes, followed closely by Anthea and quite a large S.W.A.T team. “Um. Oh. Yeah, sure.”  
“Great timing. How ‘bout that, we do all the work and then this guy comes in.” Griselda grumbled.   
“Can it, Gris.” muttered Mark. “Do you really want to deal with this guy?”  
“Can’t say I do. Can’t say I don’t want to take a couple good licks out of him either,” she snarled.  
“Guys, just do as he says. He’s got another gun Mycroft, it’s under the girl.” said John, pointing to Griselda who waved up at Mycroft.   
Mycroft approached the raggedy group on the ground and smiled down at the assassin. “Sebastian Moran. We’ve been looking for you an awful long time. I’m so glad to finally meet you.” Mycroft nodded to the S.W.A.T team and they moved forward, disarming Moran and slowly peeling the Holmes Network off of him. They helped John with Sherlock, cutting his bonds. John refused to let go of Sherlock, gently brushing the swat members off and away.  
“No, no. I’ve got him. We’ll see ourselves up. Thank you.” said John politely, draping Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders.  
“Really John. I’m fine, you can let go.” sighed Sherlock, looking down at John.  
John frowned up at Sherlock, “Over my dead body. I finally got you back, then you’re kidnapped and we had to rescue you from near death again and now you expect me to let you go again? You must be joking.   
Sherlock raised his free hand and placed it on John’s forehead, trying to smooth the furrows away. He chuckled, “I’m glad to see you too.”   
“As am I,” came a feminine voice from behind.  
“Bloody hell.” Growled another voice. “Do you know how much bloody paperwork this is going to take!”  
“Told you he’d be fine.” said a happier voice.  
Sherlock turned and saw his three cohorts, Mycroft, Molly Hooper and Stamford all in a row and Detective Inspector Lestrade glaring at him.   
Sherlock smiled at his audience, “I’m back.”


End file.
